


you hope he won't change too much

by MelHoopoe (Mellifluousness)



Category: Fortuna - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M, could be platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 04:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12623460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellifluousness/pseuds/MelHoopoe
Summary: It does seem that O-7 feels as if something was lost.





	you hope he won't change too much

The first time you ever see him it’s through the orange leaves of the bough you’re clinging to as you try to stifle your panicked breaths and smother your muscles’ tension. He stalks through the undergrowth like a born predator, his fat knapsack surely full of food. If you can just land a surprise attack...

The first time you ever touch him is when you fall out of the tree and land in a heap on him and start crying when you try to raise your makeshift shiv to slice his throat. It’s a miracle he doesn’t kill your sorry ass for it.

 

He cooks things either to frozen or ashes and couldn’t tell a poison from a delicacy, but when it comes to hunting he could take most things down without trying. You burst into tears whenever you have to lay a hand on a poor innocent animal (they’re just so cute!) but you can cook anything you’re given and find foraging relaxing. He tells you what it’s like to be raised by an M-class, and you tell him what it’s like to have parents, and on cold nights you and he and Slobbers will curl around each other by the fire. In the end, your partnership works out.

 

He lies with his head on your chest, which is kind of heavy and uncomfortable but you’re pretty sure it’s a gesture of affection and you don’t have the heart to shove him off you, and stares up at the stars through the gaps in the canopy. It’s warm enough tonight that the two of you could get away with not setting up a shelter. The murky clouds have parted overhead, baring the stars that stretch for aeons above the forest.

“You know there’s aliens living out there, >:3” he pipes up. “People on whole different worlds, way out beyond our solar system. >:3”

“Yeah? =V”

“Yeah! My M-class told me. Betcha stupid parents didn’t tell you that, huh. >:3”

“They didn’t. =V”

“That’s why you’re lucky you have me. ‘Cause I know everything there is to know. >:3”

“Of course you do. =V” You stare at the spaces between the stars, trying to pick out the alien worlds between them. “What are the aliens like, do you know? Do they all have parents? Do they go into the forest, or live in homes all their lives? Do they even have the same classes as us? =V”

“I dunno. >:3”

“But you just said-”

“Okay, well I’m  _ gonna  _ know. When I meet ‘em, I’m gonna ask ‘em, and then I’ll find out. >:3”

“You’ll meet them? =V”

“Duh! I’ll be the first notail ever to meet one when I grow up. You wait and see. >:3”

The pair of you contemplate this in silence for a moment. You are the one who usurps the quiet.

“I hope they are living better than we are. =V”

“Me too. >:3”

 

You’d like to imagine the night he first truly voices his plans of grandeur to you as a magical one. The fire between the two of you dancing across his face, the stars behind him through the cave mouth carving out his silhouette and thrusting him out beyond the limits of this world, making him something the gods would envy for his glory.

“You and me,” he said, as the tip of his index claw carved you out too, “we’re gonna change the world. Just you wait and see. >:3”

In retrospect you think you just used wet wood for the fire and the smoke was getting to you a little, but you’re a hopeless romantic if ever there was one.

 

You gesture at the path between the trees that leads to a sweet and safe freedom, Slobbers dangling under your other arm. “Please, do not feel you need to wait for me. I can last my final few months by myself. You deserve your triumphant exit. =V”

He looks towards the new home that now awaits him. A stable job. No more fighting for survival. No more going hungry or sleeping in leaf litter. You and he both know how much this means.

“Nah, >:3” he says, turning away, slinging his arm around your shoulders and pulling you to him. He uses his free hand to noogie you. “We’re leaving together or not at all. I can wait a little while. >:3”

You are so glad you have a friend as good as him.

 

Months later, scraped and scarred, hair matted with twigs and leaves, unwashed and filthy, you both stride from the woods like heroes. Slobbers at your side, his thornhead at his, both of you struggling not to limp, you’re so tired you could collapse on the spot and sleep for the next decade.

You’ve never felt better.

 

You try to slam your hands down on interrogation tables and snarl at suspects like you’ve seen the proper I-classes do. But despite half your genes being wired to twist those thorns in you, you can never quite force the violence into your voice that the others can.

You tell him how hard it is one day. He waves his hand dismissively. “You’re just not made to be all aggressive like the others. Your job’s just getting information out of people, right? >:3”

“Well... yes... =V”

“Then try something else. You’ll figure it out. >:3”

The next time you walk into an interrogation room, you sit down across from your suspect, and fold your hands in your lap and tilt your head. You talk calmly. You’re understanding. You’re polite.

To everyone’s surprise, but most especially yours, it works. You soar through the ranks, two wingbeats behind him.

 

“You ever seen someone so evil in your fucking life? >:3”

He always paces when O-6 is on TV. The man spews his poison, preaches hate and violence, sinks his fangs into your society and rots it with his venom. You and your best friend have talked about him a lot.

“I can imagine few things worse than him. =V”

“There’s  _ nothing  _ worse than him. >:3” He digs his claws into his palms as he tries to wear a ditch into the carpet.

“I wonder how much that is wrong with our society is his doing. The forest... the classes... =V”

“All of it, I bet. Fucking all of it. I hate it. I hate him. No one’s even doing anything about it. It’s shameful, is what it is. >:3” He flings his hands up and gesticulates as he rants, his voice climbing a few decibels a second. “He doesn’t deserve his rank! He doesn’t deserve to live! >:3”

You watch the TV as reporters clamber for questions, thrusting microphones into the smug fucker’s face. “Can anything even be done? =V”

“There’s gotta be something. There’s gotta be  _ something  _ that can fix this, for fuck’s sake! >:3”

You lean against the arm of the couch, gaze drifting up to your best friend. “...Do you recall the way to replace a current O-class?”

He stops and whips around to face you. “What do you mean. >:3”

“If you wish to replace an O-class and take their position for yourself, you must kill them and prove you can handle their job better than them.”

He watches you, and you watch him, and his antennae slowly rise as it dawns on him like the sun dawns on the day of the apocalypse.

“Hey. >:3”

“Yes? =V”

“You and me? >:3”

“We are going to change the world? =V”

_ “Now  _ you’re talkin’. >:3”

 

It’s through the news that you hear. He wouldn’t let you come to the fight. You want to be overjoyed for him, but the blood on his claws seizes your attention and squeezes it breathless.

You hope he won’t change too much.

 

The people sing the praises of the hero who slew the villain, the one who promises healing for a broken race. You watch the weight of his achievements settle on his shoulders, but it’s a cloak of feathers compared to the lead of all it took him to get here.

Even now you see something in him being crushed beneath it, and you are just a little afraid.

 

When the pulse throbbing through O-7’s neck dies beneath your hands, you wipe something wet and sticky from under your face, and you’re at least 60% certain it’s not the blood pouring from most parts of your body.

“You did it,” he says, and you flinch when his big hand claps down on your shoulder. You cannot take your eyes off the corpse beneath you.

“Great job. >:3”

You should be happy. You and he are going to change the world.

 

O-6 is practically bouncing on his heels as the two of you wait in the space station. Months ago the first spacefaring E-classes returned with reports of alien civilisations. Now is his first in-person diplomacy mission. You haven’t seen him this excited since he was a kid around the campfire making patterns in the stars.

“Will you bring me back a souvenir? =V” you joke.

“Just you wait, O-7. When I get back you’ll be buried in souvenirs. I’ll bring you back a real live alien for you to gush over. You don’t even know. >:3” He practically jigs over to the glass to peer at the ship waiting outside, its hulking body perched on skinny landing legs. “Aliens, O-7, I’m gonna be the first notail to shake hands with a living, breathing alien. Can you believe it? >:3”

“Certainly, =V” you reply, stepping beside him and looking up at him with no small amount of amusement. “If there is anyone I would trust to handle the situation well, it would be you. =V”

“Don’t be such a suckup, O-7. >:3” You have never heard his voice so fond. 

His antennae perk so abruptly they shudder when the pilot broadcasts a message that the crew is ready for the diplomatic party to board. He claps a hand down on your shoulder and has taken off powerwalking towards the launch bay before you’re even done flinching. “Seeya, O-7. >:3”

“Goodbye! =V” you call after him. “I hope it goes well! =V”

“You know it will! >:3” To your delight, he gives in, punches the air and runs towards the ship.

 

The death toll is in the millions, the news says, and still climbing.

“This isn’t what I wanted, >:3” he mutters beside you on the couch, face pushed up so he can rake his claws down his mask.

Doctors both notail and alien scramble to find cures, the news says, but so many different diseases ravage the planet that no one of them can be pinned down.

You have your hands folded in your lap. You cannot take your eyes off the screen.

“I never meant for this to happen. You know I didn’t. >:3”

“I know. =V”

“I should’ve known. I should never have been this fucking stupid.”

His voice is trembling. You put your hand on his shoulder and wipe something wet and sticky from beneath his face, and you know it’s not the blood he drew.

 

Notails are a black and gold snake that chews up every species they come across, and O-6 is its vicious head. His softness turns to spines, his hopes to fangs, his love to venom pumping through his veins. You think you see the past in the embers he leaves in his burning wake, but one by one he is snuffing them out.

 

“Aliens don’t even try to live, >:3” he tells you one day as he adjusts his tie to perfection in the mirror and twitches his antennae until they stand perfectly straight. “They’re just a stepping stone to higher places. And when they don’t even provide that, they’re better off dead. >:3”

You stand behind him, watching him. “Forgive me, but... that is not what you used to say. Didn’t you once want to meet them on equal ground? =V”

“Are you still holding onto the past, O-7? Grow the fuck up. None of that matters now. We’re not twelve anymore. >:3” 

He has been growing his claws so long.

“Yes, sir. Naivety should be put far behind us now. =V”

“That’s more like it. >:3”

 

He’s leaning over your shoulder, looking at some graphs on your computer screen, when you notice the claws splayed out on your desk are a shimmering gold.

“You painted your nails? =V” you ask.

“Huh? Oh. Damn right I did. >:3” He lifts them up and twiddles them where you can see them. “Like ‘em? >:3”

“They look lovely! =V”

“Want me to do yours too? >:3”

The offer surprises you. Of course you agree. Once the two of you are done with work, he sits down with you on the couch and paints yours light blue to match your tie of the day. Concentration possesses his every muscle. His precision is pretty amazing.

For a few minutes you’re kids in a cave again, and all is peaceful.

 

You step into his office with some paperwork one morning. He leaves you waiting while he yells at someone on the phone (he used to look up when you came in and he doesn’t any longer but you try not to notice) until he finally slams the receiver down and glances at you. “You should’ve been here ten minutes ago, O-7. >:3”

“My apologies, sir. I was held up up by-”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You know what this does? >:3” He shoves forward something on his desk. You peer at it. A thick black box, with a single big button on top.

“I do not believe so. Please educate me, if you will. :V”

“Thats =V, O-7. Why do you keep mixing that up so much lately? It’s annoying. >:3”

“Apologies, again. I have been distracted as of late. =V”

He hmphs. “You know those damn aliens that’ve been fucking plaguing us the past few months? >:3”

“Ah, yes, sir! I actually had some reports on-”

“Shut it for like five seconds and let me finish. >:3”

You shuffle the papers in your hands. “Terribly sorry. Please continue. =V”

“I’ve had it with them, so I had some people look into  _ solutions.  _ >:3” The way he says it would have made your skin crawl a while ago. “That’s what this thing is.” He points to the button. “Nuclear strikes at strategic points across their planet. They’ll never know what hit ‘em. Boom - gone. Just like  _ that _ . >:3” He snaps his fingers to make his point.

You feel as though you should be shaking, or something, anything, but you aren’t. Your soul is a flatline. 

“Please forgive my impudence, as I’m sure you know best, sir, but is this truly necessary? Perhaps just one would scare them into surrender, or-”

“I want you to press the button, O-7. >:3”

Your heart should have stopped. You don’t know why you’re still breathing.

“May I ask why, sir? =V”

“You’ve gotta let go of all this mushy shit at some point. You’re too soft. It’s about time you toughen the fuck up. Press the button. >:3”

You are staring at it.

“I know I am most ignorant, sir, despite my long life I seem to have hardly learned a thing - you are ahead of me in every sense, and I am like a child, still learning from you-”

“Stop being a fucking suckup and press the button. >:3”

Your pulse should be skipping. Your breath should be racing. Your skin should be slick with sweat.

“My sincerest apologies. =V”

You press the button. The death toll is in the billions.

You wait for something wet and sticky to drip from beneath your face, but nothing comes.

 

Nor does it come the fifth time.

 

Nor the hundredth.

 

Nor the thousandth.

 

You wonder, sometimes: were the little boy who huddled in caves with his best friend and dreamed of making the world something wonderful to see you now, just how much would he hate you?

  
  



End file.
